


Sisters of blood

by SenTheSeventh



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Cunnilingus, F/F, Genderbending, Humor, I'm the one-joke wonder, Incest, Sibling Incest, Vaginal Fingering, Yes I'm still joking about that damn strap, fem!Dante - Freeform, fem!Vergil - Freeform, otherwise canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 17:37:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19045183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenTheSeventh/pseuds/SenTheSeventh
Summary: Dante is still trying to put the stupid vest on. Vergil watches her fail for a while before she takes pity on her.“Do you need your big sister’s help, Dante?”Dante pouts.





	Sisters of blood

**Author's Note:**

> Betaread by the lovely [OriginBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginBlue), edited by the amazing [Subtextual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sub_textual/pseuds/sub_textual) and dedicated to the amazing (and far too creative/inspiring) people of the Spardacest Server.
> 
> I swear I'll be continuing my ongoing fics now...

Once, when they were children, Dante had shown Vergil her copy of a crude comic book that she had managed to sneak past their mother’s vigilance. The cover featured a scantily clad warrior woman posing among badly drawn monsters, hips and breast generously exposed for the audience’s pleasure.

“She’s _so cool_ ,” her sister had sighed reverently. Vergil had called it tasteless trash and they had fought, once again.

When they meet again, a decade later… Well, there is the white-hot exaltation of knowing Dante has _survived_ , the singing of Vergil's blood and soul at getting back the missing half of her, and—

Also, there’s amusement.

That strap is ridiculous and so uniquely _Dante_ that Vergil is not even mad at its impracticality. It takes a surprising amount of willpower, her sisterly instincts frustrated by her restraint, but she doesn’t comment on it. Not a single time. It is another instance of her twin’s puerility, exposing herself to — well, _exposing herself_ if even one opponent manages to score a slash on her chest and… it makes Vergil feel fond.

It also makes her feel other, less traditionally familial things. It’s not only her sister’s firm, barely hidden breasts — there’s something in the way Dante’s well-defined abs move, framed between her low-hanging trousers and that ridiculous strap which catches Vergil’s gaze.

More dangerously, it also calls to her swordsmanship.

Vergil trained herself in mastering her blade, and notably did so by learning to pin small, moving targets. The strap, in its obviousness across naked skin, looks like one of those. She can feel years of honed instincts snapping into awareness every time she sees her twin.

That would be unfair to Dante, she knows it. Hilarious, sure, but her little sister is already emotional enough and this — the raising of the Temen-ni-gru, their duel at the top of the tower — is the confrontation of their ideals — of their reason for living. Humiliating Dante by cutting her strap, reducing their battle to a crude joke, would be deeply dishonorable.

Still…

Vergil’s instincts sing. This is a small moving target. This is a challenge. She—

She can control herself.

... She can’t.

As long as she wields the Yamato, she can curb her reflexes, but then she grabs Rebellion to keep Dante down and she slips up, her balance unfocused by the foreign blade — Vergil instinctively aims for the strap.

 _Curses_.

She wastes one second of self-anger before taking off her coat to undo her vest.

“I — What are you doing?” Arkham asks behind her. It may be the first time she heard him get flustered, and she restrains dark amusement.

“Why, I’m protecting my little sister’s decency, of course.”

“She... doesn’t quite have the same — build as you.”

Vergil freezes. _This man has been ogling her twin_.

“You observed her well,” she states. Calmly.

“Anyone would study two great warriors such as you and your sister.”

He answered her as quickly as possible, before she could even reach for Yamato. The rat has good instincts.

“Very well, then. If it doesn't fit, you will give her your shirt.”

It’s disgusting, thinking that her sister will wear clothes tainted with that man’s sweat, but she’ll accept what she must. Arkham begins to protest, but then—

Dante’s demon awakens.

Wrestling her twin to the ground and pinning her into place then back into unconsciousness is a messy affair. Vergil ends up panting and frustrated but, at least, Dante _does_ fit into her vest with a bit of force, although she is indeed more muscled than Vergil — barely so. Her sister’s flesh juts out slightly from the garment, supple under Vergil’s hands. She’s matter-of-fact in dressing Dante, of course. They are both women and she is — was — used to seeing her twin naked when they were children, so any unexpected stirring is unreasonable. And probably accidental. Not that she has any distaste towards incest, but to have the bad taste to lust after someone as irritatingly messy, irresponsible and _lax_ as Dante would be shameful.

Arkham had prudently kept away from them, face turned towards the sky. Satisfactory. Vergil does not care about Dante being looked at when her sibling is awake. She really doesn’t. That seems to be her little sister’s intent: feeling beautiful and not minding that the world partakes in it.

But when Dante is unconscious, well — it’s another matter.

Vergil leaves as Dante stirs again. She has things to do.

Like finding a new vest.

( _I can’t breathe_ , Dante whines through their following encounters like the ungrateful brat she is.)

***

She falls. She is vanquished, hollowed, reshaped.

She dies. She comes back. She crumbles, slowly.

In the end, she lives.

***

“You kept the vest,” she realizes later as she cleans up the unspeakable mess that Dante had let accumulate in the rat’s nest she calls her shop.

The demon huntress doesn’t look at her, suddenly very busy with sorting out her small collection of coins. Vergil stares at the garment — old blood, dust, folds so ancient they’ve about become a permanent part of the fabric. She abruptly realize that it has never been cleaned since their fight for the Force Edge.

“You should throw it away,” she says.

“Nope,” Dante snaps.

There’s a heartbeat of silence, heavy with meaning. Ostensibly, Dante seems relaxed, slouched over her couch with diversely shaped coins on her lap and waist — a foolish way to sort out anything, and Vergil restrains instinctive exasperation at her sister’s innate messiness — but her eyes are pale specks of iron. Vergil can feel her tension, the dark edges that Dante finally veils with a grin that is too sudden and too wide.

“It still suits me! Can’t waste good clothes, ya know?”

Vergil snorts.

“I remember how you moaned and complained about the fit.”

She won’t bring up the ghosts of the past if Dante doesn’t wish to revisit them. Not now, perhaps not ever. Nero may have need of explanations and excuses— her headstrong daughter, so honest with all including herself — but Vergil and Dante are not made of the same cloth. They can interweave their lives together without words; flawed, silent, content in the moment.

“What?! I didn’t bitch! It suited me perfectly.”

“You did, and it didn’t.”

“It _totally_ fit. Look at it!”

Dante grabs the vest from Vergil's hands and tries to put it on over her shirt. Unsurprisingly, her attempts are futile. Vergil crosses her arms and smirks, supremely amused by her twin's stubbornness.

She remembers the feeling of her sister’s skin against her hands back then, wet from the rain and burning from the demon within.

“’Course, I didn’t have stupid clothes under it — just you wait—”

“What?” Vergil says before her little sister just takes off her shirt and the dingy sports bra she wears underneath, answering her question well enough.

Dante has gotten tougher — thick, rolling abs, firm and hard under the roundness of her breasts. Vergil is used to the view; half-naked is Dante’s default state outside of opening hours. Her palms and her fingers, as always, itch with the need to touch, to take. But she doesn’t show it because Dante doesn’t show anything, either, and rejection would break everything they've built those past months. They’re talented at hiding their feelings — maybe too well, and sometimes she wonders (it’s not _hope_ , because _hope_ is something pathetic and powerless) at the hand ruffling her hair, the shoulder nudging hers, the affectionate pats and joking jabs.

When did Vergil begin to acknowledge Dante’s strength, the power hidden in her sister’s easygoing fluidity? When did she learn to accept — to _enjoy_ , sometimes — everything she had despised in her twin when she had been too young and too sure of her ideals to accept anything but cold, perfect order? Maybe under Mundus’ thumb, when she had clung to fleeting memories of wide, glowing smiles and fond sisterly exasperation as her mind crumbled. Maybe in her years of putrefaction, as she pulled herself through death to fight and triumph one last time. Maybe as V, rediscovering the bright, strange feelings she’d forsaken for power as they tore at her heart with the fangs of regret.

She pulls herself from her contemplation and looks at Dante, who’s still trying to put the stupid vest on. Vergil watches her fail for a while before she takes pity on her.

“Do you need your big sister’s help, Dante?”

Dante pouts. “Yeah, well, your clothes are always so damn complicated.”

“I wouldn’t like you to hurt your head by thinking too hard, sister,” Vergil jeers while she reaches for the vest.

Her nails brush against Dante’s skin; she hears the catch in her twin’s breath.

_… Interesting._

Vergil pulls on the fabric until she manages to close it around Dante’s hips. Tempting flesh juts out and she pinches it slightly, making Dante startle.

“ _Vergil!_ ”

“Mm?”

“No pinching!”

“When you ask for help, little sister, you have to pay for it.”

Dante groans, irritated. “Well, I can finish this on my own!”

“Taking on adversity alone. Admirable.”

Useless in the end, though. The waist goes alright, but the breasts prove themselves an insurmountable obstacle.

Vergil waits, smirking.

“Okay, asshole, _I need your help._ ”

And maybe it’s the moment — the levity of seeing Dante struggling with her vest, the strange pain at knowing her sister had kept it and why; or maybe it’s simply arousal, but Vergil dares.

“I’ll push your breasts in place and you finish it. You’ve got to learn to put on your own clothes, sister.”

Dante stares at her, pupils suddenly dark and stark against the paleness of her irises.

“Huh,” she manages. For a moment, she’s struck silent — a most uncharacteristic predicament for Vergil’s loudmouth of a sister.

But then, she grins, because Dante is _always_ smiling, and finds something to say, after a while. “Well, be gentle, huh? I don’t just leave my tits in _anyone_ ’s hands.”

“Sensitive?” Vergil asks.

She touches her sister with a deceptive gentleness, feeling her shudder under her hands, and she thinks: _ah. This is the moment_. The tipping of the scales. The moment when their broken edges align.

Dante’s breasts are so soft, when all the rest of her is hard, sculpted marble. She gasps when Vergil’s fingers press against her nipples, then tease them — gently still; she’s careful to be slow, her whole world focused on the parts of her that are flush with her twin’s skin.

“ _Vergil,_ ” Dante breathes out. Her voice is a shuddering, ragged thing.

Vergil leans to kiss her sister’s breastbone, tearing a moan from her throat. Suddenly, trembling hands are clasping her face, pulling her to a desperate, wanting mouth — hot lips crush against her own and teeth click against hers, briefly. Vergil is not the kind of woman to receive an attack without giving it back with interest; she grabs Dante’s nape to capture her with a violent kiss.

Vergil feels desire and exaltation like drunkenness in her veins. She needs to touch more of Dante, to feel her sister completely flush against her, and luckily her twin spares her the humiliation of showing excessive bodily affection by embracing her first. Of course, Vergil graciously returns the gesture, caressing her sister's muscled back and the sensuous curve of her hips.

She needs to lose more clothes. To feel Dante naked against her.

“Vergil— I want— fuck, I’m gonna _die_ if I can’t touch you.”

The sheer desire radiating off her twin, trembling in her husky voice, is contagious madness. Vergil breathes out, struggling to keep her tone even.

“If you’ve got a medical condition, I’d be a bad big sister not to indulge you...”

“Thank you, nurse!”

Dante is so enthusiastic in undressing Vergil. And so unprepared for the lace system that fastens her twin’s shirt. They settle for taking off their own clothes before Dante does something they both regret, like damaging Vergil’s latest “it’s-not-that-expensive-Dante” acquisition (that was partly sponsored by their hunts and partly by a few illegal ventures, but there are things that her twin doesn't need to know).

Dante is the first to be undressed, kicking off her boots somewhere in the mess. Vergil rolls her eyes as she bends to undo her bootlaces.

“Let me,” Dante demands roughly.

Vergil sees no reasons to refuse. She leans against the desk, half-sitting on it to stay perfectly steady as her sister kneels, naked between her legs.

Dante is messily gorgeous, looking as drunk in need as Vergil feels. Age had made her beautiful in a different way than before, hardened some lines and softened others; her sister’s eyes are harsher, paler diamonds — so fragile, right now, so lost, clinging to Vergil as the only truth they need to behold. Vergil caresses her hair shakily, trying not to succumb to the lust burning within her while her twin clumsily, slowly take off her boots. Dante kisses her calf when she’s done, her lips soft and reverent, stroking naked skin before she raises her feverish gaze to Vergil.

“Need to get you out of those pants,” she rasps, tugging at the fabric impatiently.

“What are you waiting for, then?” Vergil retorts.

She had already undone her belt and buttons, so Dante only has to pull, which she does with an alacrity that is completely — and thankfully — at odds with her dazed look. Soon, Vergil is utterly naked, sprawled against her sister’s desk.

She’s so wet it’s going to saturate the wood, but she doesn’t care. Desire is a tight ball of tension inside her, so intense, it physically hurts; she’d order Dante to do something about it, but her twin is already moving between her legs, kissing feverish skin and making her startle.

“Vergil. Need to put my mouth on you. Let me.”

 _Need, need, need_. Her childish little sister, painting desires as inescapable compulsions. She hasn’t changed that much in that regard.

Vergil indulges.

Dante pants harshly when alabaster thighs spread further for her. She rushes in immediately, groaning as she licks experimentally at flushed lips, and grins against wet skin at her twin's vocal gasp.

“ _Dante,_ ” Vergil growls.

A chuckle answers her, heated breath against oversensitive flesh making her shudder. She hasn’t been touched like that in decades — and even then, her affairs were short, efficiency-focused stints.

“Trust me,” Dante whispers against her.

Then she’s exploring, fingers and lips and tongue enjoying Vergil’s taste and feel — following the folds of inner lips, licking deep inside her before coming up to her clit. The sparks of pleasure that have been building up in Vergil's nerves find an explosive answer, gripping her almost to the point of ecstatic pain. She inhales sharply, hands clenching in Dante’s hair, struggling not to crush her sister’s head between her thighs. Her twin groans in protest but seems only encouraged to continue, looking for the spots that make Vergil twitch and gasp — she plunges two fingers deep inside Vergil, a rolling rhythm punctuated by the press and tease of her tongue, and Vergil can’t last, though she tries; climax undoes her with a slowness that belies the intensity of the waves of pleasure dragging her thoughts away.

Panting, almost dizzy with the intensity of the sensation, Vergil reflexively brushes her hair back into order. Her little sister's face is buried against her crotch, cheek against the white brush of her netherhair, breathing in her scent in short, needy breaths. Vergil’s body clenches with renewed arousal at her twin’s honest hunger, Dante’s touch still branded on her, but then she sees the hand pressed against Dante’s crotch, the minute movement of her fingers, and anger takes her instead; she pulls her up by her throat, bites at her lips as she grabs her sister’s wrist.

“Hey! Vergil, I’m _not_ into orgasm denial—”

“Don’t you _dare_ , Dante. You’ll come by _my_ hand.”

And now her little sister is looking at her again with those wide, dark eyes, her whole face flushed with arousal, and struggles a moment to find her voice. “Okay — okay — _okay._ Now? Because I’m kind of dying here, sis.”

“Now,” Vergil promises with a smirk.

She pulls Dante into a deep kiss, tasting the remaining saltiness of her desire in her twin's mouth. The demon huntress grinds easily against Vergil’s thigh, moaning against her lips, needy and demanding. The idea of her coming just from rutting on Vergil should not be so painfully arousing, still—

It’s not enough.

Vergil pushes Dante against her desk, inverting their positions, and kisses her throat, her cheek, her lips. She’d like to caress her sister properly, to discover Dante’s body at her own pace, but Dante's panting, shuddering, half-wild with lust, and making her wait right now would be the surest way to a fight. Instead, she lightly brushes her nails against her breastbone, follows the lines of her stomach and the vee of her hips to the place where wild, white hairs frame the lips of her sister’s sex. Dante moans, jerking against the touch — so wet, so eager for her.

So vocal. Vergil relies on her own experience to experiment with Dante's reactions — caressing, pressing, teasing the tip of her index finger almost inside her before retreating, her twin’s whole body twisting to follow.

“ _Vergil!_ ” Trust Dante to make her name sounds like an insult.

Vergil chuckles and gives her two fingers at once, feeling inner muscles clench around her. “It seems we share sensibilities, sister.”

“Great,” Dante pants. “ _More._ ”

Vergil bites — no, _nibbles_ at her throat. Violence comes too easy for them, fighting easier still, and she wants to keep it peaceful for now; she kisses and licks at fragile skin, and sucks at her sister's breasts while she massages her clit. Dante’s hips buck into her touch and Vergil forces her in place — or tries, as much as she can; they are equal in strength, after all — as she keeps it slow, deliberate — two fingers, then three, stretching her sister broadly while she continues to press and tease around her clit.

Dante is shuddering and crying out for her, legs clenching around her waist in an iron grip, and Vergil goes a bit rougher, focused on every tremble, every moan, committing to memory her sister’s face twisting in ecstasy as she’s pushed to the edge — voice growing louder and louder, skin wet with sweat, body throbbing around Vergil’s fingers until her cries peak in a silent scream and she thrashes violently, riding her orgasm through thoughtless lust, until she finally goes pliant.

Vergil wants to do it all over again.

She takes her fingers out of Dante, her thoughts briefly stopped by the salacious, wet sound of the withdrawal — her sister groaning a protest, inner muscles tensing to try to retain the intrusion that filled her, liquid filaments linking Vergil’s fingertips to the flushed lips of her sex before she breaks contact. Dante is disheveled, dripping, the inside of her thighs soaked with liquid pleasure; Vergil wants to lick it, taste it, make her full again. Instead, she kisses her sister with a softness that is an eternity apart from the hunger she feels and let her humid fingers draw invisible patterns on the curve of her hips.

“Feeling better?”

Dante cracks an eye open and lick at her lips.

“Ask me in two or three rounds. Or six. Or more. Or —”

“Stop speaking foolishness and just act,” Vergil growls against her earlobe.

They make love, again, and of course they can't keep violence out of it, in the end; fighting is so natural for them that it weaves into the moment like breathing. Dante calls for a truce when they trigger and almost destroy her sound system.

“You know what?” She whispers against the crook of Vergil’s armpit once they’re exhausted enough for a brief respite.

“I’m sure I’ll know soon enough.”

“I rest my case, this goddamn vest _was_ perfectly my size.”

Vergil is too tired to do anything but affectionately stab her with a summoned sword.


End file.
